All For A Kiss
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: 20 drabbles things for the kiss meme.
1. Dorian x Cullen

**All For a Kiss  
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**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Firm Kiss slot. Also, because there's an anon(s) going around Tumblr getting irritated over the gay stuff in the Cullen tag. I need to put more gay/bi Cullen stuff in the tags.

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The problem lies not solely within himself, Cullen realizes with the sort of abruptness that comes with all true epiphanies.

It is not that Cullen can spin himself up into a nervous wreck tripping over his tongue and rubbing the back of his neck raw while trying to utter a simple greeting. It's not that he cannot think of the right way to segue from idle talk into the more personal inquiries he dearly wishes for. Not that he gets so lost in the graceful flow of an arm -from shoulder to finger tips- arcing through the air like eddies of water forming complex figures to emphasized the almost musical words being uttered that he forgets he's supposed to say something back. It's certainly not the fact that Cullen is very sure he _wants_ far more than what is offered on occasion with flippant remarks that appear to be almost subconscious.

It doesn't help, certainly, but it is not the only reason why Cullen feels he's unable to reach out to Dorian.

For all the lack of care he proclaims to have for it, Dorian is nobility as far as his home country is concerned. He has that unique awareness of himself and how others perceive him that Cullen sees so often among those ranks. Cullen might be tripping himself up with his doubts and fumbling, but there is no way that Dorian hasn't noticed and correctly interpreted those moments.

Cullen knows it to be truth even as he thinks it. He remembers all the times he has almost said what he meant to say. The times when his words would hang just a shade too long and Dorian would blithely change the subject. His face showing neither concern nor curiosity at what Cullen might have said, and Cullen had been grateful for that each time. Had been equally grateful when Dorian stopped pointing out every red hot flush that crossed Cullen's face and passing a remarkably apt comment about the reason for it off as a joke. Ignoring and shifting attention away from Cullen's attempts at mild flirtation.

It would be easy to read the unspoken rejection in that. Easy and foolish, because Cullen's learned a great deal about the mage in their time together. Either playing a few games in the garden, or during the -frequent- attempts by seemingly the whole Inquisition to pull Cullen out of his office when he's needed there the most. So Cullen knows that Dorian is not the kind of man who would turn a blind eye to the affections of someone in the hopes it will go away.

He's far more likely to let them down if not interested, and if he were interested... Well, Cullen's fairly sure Dorian wouldn't hold back and patiently wait like it seems he's been doing. Because Dorian is waiting. Cullen can't think of what else it is that Dorian is doing while Cullen makes a fool of himself in front of the man so very obviously all the time.

There are no more epiphanies, just a faintly nervous thread of hope, to brighten his thoughts as Cullen leans against his desk and allows his mind to wander. Turning the possibilities over and over. Arguing for one reasoning and then another. Doing absolutely nothing useful with his time and effectively setting him right back where he began.

It's almost a relief when the door he's been staring at opens and pulls him from his circular thoughts.

"Why, I do think you were expecting me, Commander," Dorian says with a smile as he strolls in from the East door. He takes in the office and Cullen's desk with a quick glance before fixing his gaze on Cullen. The man is wearing one of his lighter robes. The ones that he refuses to give up even thought Cullen knows he'll complain of being cold at least twice an hour wearing them.

"I've half a dozen urgent requests and three times as many reports to read. The odds of someone dragging me away so it can grow were assured before the fifth one came in," Cullen says, and that response is rote enough by now that it comes out smoothly. "What can I do for you, Dorian?"

"I need a poison taster," Dorian waves back the way he came from. Towards the main hall. He would mention the tavern by name otherwise. "Varric swears he has something that I must simply try, and I'd feel a lot better having someone with a hardier constitution on hand for whatever rot he's brought from Kirkwall this time."

Varric is fond of telling Cullen that he thinks too much. It's true, and is what makes him so very good at his work. Thinking each situation through to the very end -_every_ possible end- saves lives and wins them battles. It's a great skill to have for any commander. In life, it is not as much of an asset.

"Commander?" Dorian raises his voice slightly. A bit of concern that doesn't show on his face at all as he waits. Poised on the balls of his feet like he does when danger is around and no one knows which direction it will come from.

"Nothing, that sounds," Cullen steps forward to lead the way out of his office and stops before he can reach for the door. He's doing it again. Thinking of every possibility, making plans and contingencies and fall back options that won't matter because Dorian will be gone before Cullen has them finished.

_No_. He needs to stop thinking.

"Cullen?" Dorian steps up and the concern shows now as he looks him over closely. Looking.  
That familiar searching expression too many people turn on him these days when he's feeling a little done in.

"I'm fine, Just," Cullen laughs ruefully and rolls his neck a little, feeling it crack a little before he makes himself look Dorian in the eye. "I'm just thinking too much."

"Nonsense. Too many people don't think enough!" Dorian scoffs, and his voice is loud and bright with a joke but he steps back. One foot to put some distance between them. Nervousness, and Cullen thinks he could have another epiphany right now about the other half of the reason why he's not getting anywhere in this.

He could, but he'd much rather get past it.

When he's not thinking too much, when he's not planning or second guessing, it's easy reach out and cup the back of Dorian's head. Easy to pull him close and angle his head down, to press a kiss to his still lips. Soft and pliant with surprise that Cullen doesn't take advantage of just yet. It's an action meant to show intention, and the soft noise it draws from Dorian as he moves into it is an answer.

"I'm not the only one thinking too much," Cullen murmurs when he pulls back. Just the smallest bit so that he can still feel the the soft brush of Dorian's lips with each word. He keeps his hand on the back of Dorian's head even as he tries to pull back. "Don't. Unless you really don't want this..."

Dorian curses. Low and fluid under his breath, and Cullen's sure he can translate that if he wants to but Dorian's growling in frustration, "It's not about what I want!"

He doesn't pull away, and Cullen should probably question him about that statement. Should probably discuss this with him. There's a lot of things Cullen should probably do, but chooses to focus on the fact that Dorian doesn't pull away. Doesn't stop him when he pulls him into another firm kiss that is better than any words Cullen could have said.

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	2. Dorian x Cullen 2

**All For a Kiss  
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**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Jawline Kiss slot.

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Dorian's skin is smooth and faintly scented from the spices of the soaps he uses. The ones he goes through great pains to find every time he leaves Skyhold. Cullen fancies he can almost taste it as he brushes his lips down the line of Dorian's jaw.

The man shakes with repressed laughter that Cullen only feels because he has his arms wrapped tight around his chest. Dorian's face is annoyed in the small mirror he uses for shaving when Cullen looks up. "If you're quite done

"I'm not stopping you," Cullen says with a small smirk. He feels the shiver in Dorian as the words are pressed into his skin. Cullen refusing to back off as he continues to explore the newly shaved skin with his lips.

"Yes," Dorian drawls. Dry as a desert and not making a move to lift the razor again, or push Cullen away. "I know you may think that, but I am not nearly suicidal enough to try and place something sharp so close to my neck while you have your hands all over me."

"You could skip shaving," Cullen suggests in jest just to see the way his face screws up with indignation. He shifts his head so he can drag his own jaw against Dorian. The razor clangs as it is dropped and Dorian sags against him just a little. "A little stubble isn't a bad thing."

"Not everyone can pull off the barbarian look," Dorian says. Light words with a dark voice that makes Cullen grin as the man turns in his arms. Forgetting the thin layer of soap still on his face as he pushes Cullen up against the wall to kiss up the column of his neck to his ear. "Some of us have a distinguished image to maintain. Granted, it takes me little effort as I am rather dashing, but some small pains must be tended to."

There's barely any hint of facial hair under the soap when Cullen reaches up to cup his face and pull Dorian away from his ear into a brief kiss. More tease than anything, because Cullen knows the promise of more will motivate Dorian like little else. "Small?"

Dorian grumbles about being misunderstood and being distracted, but that doesn't stop him from pushing Cullen back towards the bed.

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	3. Varric x Cullen

**All For a Kiss  
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**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Gentle Peck slot.

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"Enjoying yourself, Commander?" There's laughter threaded through the words that slide through the chatter of the ball. Stuffy subjects with sly undertones and obnoxious titters that have been slowly driving Cullen mad. Varric's voice and presence is a very welcome change, and the man knows it going by his smirk. "That good, huh?"

The cup he holds up for Cullen is strangely shaped and expensive looking, but feels far more solid in Cullen's hand than anything else he's held so far. The drink inside is also heavy and bracing. Cullen takes a second, longer drink before turning a grateful smile on the dwarf. "Thank you, Varric. I am rather out of my depth here."

"It shows," Varric leans up against the wall next to him and gives a brilliant smile to a masked noble that Cullen's been watching inch their way down the hall towards him with a worryingly predatory gait. The noble, man or woman Cullen cannot honestly tell, pauses and seems stymied. "I hear his Inquisitorialness has been expressed some concern over the safety of your virtue."

"Don't remind me," Cullen groans. Maxwell has nearly been drawn into a duel once already as some foolish noble tried to fob off one of his our daughters onto Cullen. Cullen's politely horrified refusal had offended somehow and led the man to believe the Inquisitor was at fault. "I don't understand these people."

Cullen grimaces into his cup and shifts the slightest bit. His backside smarts from far too many questing fingers. They've been getting bolder as the event goes on, and Cullen's mostly sure her has bruises from the sneaky pinches he hasn't been able to dodge. He coughs to clear his throat and lowers his voice so that only Varric can hear him next. "I'm far more worried over them keeping their heads if they try again."

Maxwell had not been pleased, but it was Josephine who had been the most wrathful. Enough to escape her sister for a while and do something that earned Cullen almost an entire hour of rest from the prying questions and sly maneuvering of the game that made Orlais so mad.

"They'll be fine," Varric assures with more confidence than Cullen feels. The noble is over their dismay and is making their way towards him again. Faster now, skipping every other person in the hall in a way they hadn't been doing before. "You'll be fine too, Curly. You done with that?"

Cullen blinks down at his cup and finds it empty. Regretfully. Varric plucks it out of his hand and places it on a nearby table before plucking Cullen's hand up with the same motion. The man's laughing inside, Cullen can see it through the wickedly amused glint in his eyes over his knuckles, as he presses a light kiss to his hand.

"The thinkers have decided that you need a bodyguard to keep any more _incidents_ from happening," Varric is the very picture of courtly elegance as he bows a little over Cullen's hand. Mannerisms similar to what Cullen's observed during the ball, and he knows there's meaning there that he just doesn't know. The way the people around him seem to react gives him a fair idea, but Cullen doesn't care. "How about we go out into the gardens and get away from this crowd?"

"I would appreciate that," Cullen says with a sigh as Varric leads him away from the spot he's been a little terrified to move from alone. Fearful of finding himself in a small room with no way to escape easily without causing damaging offense. He feels a little like a damsel in distress with one of Varric's broad hands settled firmly against his lower back as a guide. His pride will smart for it later. Maybe. "As long as it keeps my bottom from being assaulted again."

"What? You think I'm a perfect gentleman?" Varric exclaims in mock dismay and Cullen stifles a yelp as the hand on his back moves low and gives him a firm squeeze. "You ought to know better than that, Curly."

Cullen feels his face flaming from the action he really should have expected and takes the relative seclusion of the stairs they're going down to try to throw an elbow at Varric's head. His arm is caught and Varric laughs, low but good natured, in time to press another kiss to his hand. In full sight of the nobles mingling in the open gardens.

"Yes," Cullen grudgingly agrees and follows Varric as he expertly keeps them away from the larger groupings. Anger completely absent because he does know Varric better and his ability to make light of almost any situation is something Cullen is grateful for no matter what the situation. "Better the leech I know than the ones I do not."

Varric laughs, and the event goes reasonably well up until the assassinations start.

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	4. Anders x Cullen

**All For a Kiss  
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**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Kiss Along the Hips slot. From an Au idea where: Cullen doesn't get tortured in Kinloch, the Warden takes him and Anders along to travel, and at the end they both get conscripted into the Wardens.

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Having a bed again is still a novel concept. Though Cullen doesn't really have much opportunity to enjoy it. Things may be less dire now without an Archdemon around, but Darkspawn still lurk too close to the surface. Elissa has them out every other week. Keeping an eye on the areas that are known trouble areas. Where the access to the Deep Roads is wide open.

It's work, constant and hard. Leaving him little time to think, little time to adjust, and Cullen is grateful for it. The way the Darkspawn lurk and claw at the back of his mind is unsettling, and thinking about it -about how and why he can feel them- does no good for his mind. Keeping busy keep his mind from straying to that and other matters best left alone for his peace of mind.

Being busy is good, but Cullen still appreciates every opportunity he's given to stretch out on the soft bed that's _his_. The surface he's laying on dips under another weight. _Their_ bed, he silently corrects himself as he cracks one eye open.

The cat picks its way over his legs, purring faintly as it stalks back and forth. Looking for the best place to curl up and go to sleep. Cullen has no illusions about that spot being anything less than mildly uncomfortable for him. He'll wake up sometime late with pointed claws flexing in and out of his skin too. "Why does he always sleep on me?"

"You can't really blame him. You're usually the most comfortable thing to sleep on," the bed dips even further and long strands of blonde hair drag against Cullen's bare stomach as Anders leans down to affectionately kiss the cat. "Pounce is just used to it."

"Just Pounce?" Cullen asks dryly as he reaches down to gather up the ticklish strands of hair and pull it away from him. He pulls lightly on it too. Enough to make the mage smirk as Pounce settles over Cullen's right knee. The cat is getting heavy enough that Cullen knows his leg will fall asleep from that position later.

"Well, you are much better than the ground," Anders laughs as he leans up enough to place a smacking kiss on the sharp just of Cullen's hip. Nipping just enough to make Cullen pull harder on the hair around his fingers in warning.

"I want to sleep," Cullen follows up on the warning, but it's already futile. Anders eyes gleam and his smirk grows as he crawls up Cullen's body, and the brush of skin makes Cullen's mouth go dry. "You know the Warden-Commander will send us back out in the morning. I wish to spend one night in bed before going back to a tent."

"You'll get a night," Anders murmurs and Cullen damns every sly joke ever made about Warden stamina as he feels himself stirring in interest that he knows won't die easily. "No reason to waste it all on sleep though."

Pounce makes an indignant growling noise as he's displaced and leaves the bed, but Cullen's too busy to see where the cat ends up sleeping.

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	5. Male Surana x Cullen

**All For a Kiss  
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**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Hot, Steamy Kiss slot.

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Cullen doesn't go to sleep. He lays in his narrow bed, eyes open to the dark, and listens intently until the dark room is filled with a cacophony of snores. He waits a little longer, just to be sure that no one is aware enough to note him sliding out of his bed and into his boots. He leaves his armor and sword behind as he eases out of the barracks room.

The halls are dimmed but not completely dark. There is no time where the Tower is ever truly asleep. Somewhere, a mage is still awake and researching, and a templar will be near to watch and guard. Cullen moves quickly, with purpose so that if he is seen no one will put much notice to him.

He picks his pace up once he passes the lavatories. Speeding up to dart down a darker hall that leads to nothing but storage rooms. Cullen only slows once he reaches the last rooms. Not sure which of them he is actually looking for until he sees the left door is slightly ajar.

Alim jumps slightly as the door shuts behind Cullen's back with a loud sound, and his eyes are wide before he seems to note who is in the room with him. Then, his eyes seem to grow impossibly larger and the small envelopes of ingredients he's been sorting scatter under his hands. "Ser Cullen, I- Ah excuse me."

The newly Harrowed mage turns to quickly put the packets right again, but Cullen can see the flush running up the back of his neck and tinting his pointed ears even from the door. It sets his heart to pounding again like it had earlier when the mage had sought him out after his Harrowing. As it always does when Cullen is near Alim, but today it has been worse. So very much worse because today, for the first time, Alim had stayed beyond Cullen's customary attempts to keep the mage at a distance.

Pushing on with the dogged determination that Cullen's seen him apply to a particularly difficult area of study. Use it to pull more words from Cullen than he's spoken to any mage yet, and fluster him to the point where he'd had to run or embarrass himself in the very open halls of the Tower.

Alim's words still ring in Cullen's mind, and it's on the tip of his tongue to ask the man if he meant them. He wants to ask but he knows he won't. Knows that as soon as he opens his mouth to talk he will be gone. Back out into the halls to slink either into the barracks again or spend the night on his knees in the Chantry. Praying for something he knows won't come.

"Can I help you with something?" Alim turns to ask and he's regained his composure. Unfair because Cullen's only composure around the mage has always been the shadows of his helm and silence. Neither of which he's had the use of lately. He's smiling, but there's enough of a touch of nervousness to ease Cullen's sense of unfairness. A touch of hope in Alim's eyes that is just enough to pull Cullen away from the door after testing to be sure it's closed.

Alim doesn't shy from Cullen's fingers on his face, only licks his lips in anticipation, and Cullen bends his head quickly before he looses his nerve. Alim is soft and pliant under his lips, and he wraps his arms around Cullen instantly. Angling his head until the sweet kiss devolves into something hard and burning. His tongue forcing its way into Cullen's mouth and stealing what little sense he had left with a muffled noise that Cullen _needs_ to hear again.

The table jumps as they fall back against it and Cullen aches for more even as Alim gives it to him. Their breathing is harsh and loud in the small room when they part and Cullen licks away the faint taste of lyrium from his lips as he looks down at Alim. The mage smiles, slow and wide, the same smile that has haunted Cullen for far too long as he threads one hand into the hair at the back of his head. Holding him still and slowly pulling him down. "Is this still inappropriate?"

"Yes," Cullen answers honestly and swallows hard because his voice comes out too rough and too deep. He can't bring himself to care about either matter at the moment though as Alim shifts under him. "Extremely inappropriate."

He doesn't fight against the insistent tug that pulls him back into another kiss though.

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	6. Alistair x Cullen

**All For a Kiss  
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**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Neck Kiss slot. Assumes Warden died to kill Archdemon, Alistair stayed a Warden, and Stroud was the Warden you took with you to the Fade. Damn what the game said.

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The Gray Wardens settle in as well as any other faction the Inquisition has absorbed. Uneasily and with enough minor crises to make Cullen want to run head first into the nearest, solid looking bit of wall. Repeatedly, until the urge to punch everyone he sees calms down. That it will ease and the conflict subside as the factions grow to know and respect each other is a minor balm.

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Alistair says as he shifts to lean back against one of Cullen's book shelves. Angling himself enough so the handle of his broadsword doesn't catch and bring the whole shelf down again. "But there _has_ to be someone better suited to the role than me. I mean that in the most literal sense. Pretty sure my dog can do a better job."

Cullen knows Alistair in small moments. He knows the boy who used to drive the older Templars and Brothers to heights of rage that Cullen has rarely seen again since the man was snatched away by the Gray Wardens. He knows fevered dreams of a voice and face so utterly unexpected amidst the madness of Kinloch Hold that he'd allowed himself to trust it. He knows a twisted version of Alistair as 'the Warden who lived' from the mouths of bards who wouldn't know the truth if it attacked them. He knows Alistair from infrequent -and very bizarre- visits to the Gallows as the man looked for a place to rest his head for a few hours that wouldn't end up with him losing the thing to thieves.

Brief moments that taken together have apparently made them something more than acquaintances, but perhaps a little less than friends. Something that is just enough that Cullen hadn't thought twice of floating Alistair's name out when discussion grew tense over the issue of who would lead the Gray Wardens with Warden Stroud lost to the Fade. A recommendation immediately backed by Leliana, and ending with a group of scouts being sent out to find the man.

The dog in question lifts his head up from some unseeable trail to regard both men. He whines a little and it sounds questioning, before the scent has his full attention again. Watching the random trail the mabari follows, Cullen has an inkling of who -or _who_\- he's smelling, and resolves to check carefully for anything Sera might have left behind.

"Most organizations would be better off with mabari leading them," Cullen agrees easily and it gets a hearty laugh out of Alistair. The first since they'd set Cullen's books back to rights again. "Unfortunately, we're dealing with mostly Orlesians and they would not see the sense in it." Granted, the Gray Wardens are some of the most reasonable Orlesians Cullen has come across yet. The influence of the Warden's extremely open organization no doubt. "The Wardens are open to accepting anyone the Inquisitor appoints over them, but Leliana and I thought it best that leadership remain in the ranks so to speak. We're not a temporary organization, but the future of the Inquisition isn't all that clear. The Gray Wardens are far too important to Thedas to allow to fall if it is disbanded."

There is also the worrying lack of oversight and communication from Weisshaupt to contend with, and after Corypheus' effect on the Wardens has been known that silence is more ominous.

"I don't suppose she considered Oghren at all?" Alistair says with a sigh as he places one hand on the back of his neck and cracks it. He winces at the sound and laughs a little. "No, don't answer that. Rhetorical question. She'd elect Schmooples for the position before him. I guess I can see why she'd think I'd be good."

Cullen blinks and worries that both those names sound familiar though he doesn't know why. He's almost afraid to ask.

"Alright, fine!" Alistair says with an explosive sigh that seems to come all the way out from his gut. He tries a smile but it looks like a grimace more than anything and Cullen actually feels a little cheered at it. Alistair's lack of enthusiasm speaks well for his viewing the position for what it is. A duty and responsibility. "I guess I'll do it. If they'll accept me. You know they wouldn't have just accepted anyone without question or testing, right?"

"The thought had entered out minds," Cullen says with a slight grin. It'd been unspoken, but communicated well in the guarded eyes of the Wardens. Bound to the Inquisition but holding tight to their autonomy and secrets.

A sharp bark interrupts whatever reply Alistair is gathering and Cullen turns his head just in time to see the dog -rear end wagging in excitement- pull out a bag from behind a pile of books still waiting to be shelved in the right order. He has a split second to wonder what it is before the tell-tale sound of buzzing registers and the first of the small, angry bodies starts to swarm out from the disturbed nest.

"Maker no!"

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"Bees," Cullen repeats hoping that he had in fact misheard it.

"Yes, bees! Deadly little things especially when there's so many of them!" Alistair glares at him and it's pathetic looking enough that Cullen starts to believe him. As if the swelling and blotchiness of his skin around the swollen areas was feigned. "You're laughing at me, aren't you? I know you are. Don't try to lie about it."

"No," Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache that's threatening him and to block out the way Alistair looks. Pouting with his right eyes swollen closed and laid out in the infirmary bed. "I'm just coming to terms with the fact that our Commander of the Gray appears to be highly allergic to bees."

"Well, it's not like I go around taking swings at nests all the time," Alistair's one fully open eye gleams in a way that lets Cullen know he'd be grinning if his face were capable of it. The man always did seem to have the ability to laugh -loudly and heartily- at himself. "I told you you'd regret this you know?"

Yes, but Cullen doesn't get the chance to correct the man as the door opens and more familiar voices spill in. He steps aside for the moment as the Inquisitor comes in with an indignant Sera in tow.

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Alistair does not end the friction. His leadership is accepted by the Wardens, but the incidents still occur. It is easier dealing with them when he knows who to look for on the Warden's side though.

"Wait, there's a _well_ here?" Alistair asks with a look of astonishment. He spins to stride over to the edge of the battlements to look over the keep, suspicion replacing his look. "Where?"

"Next to the stables," Cullen says and then adds pointedly, "In front of the building your office is in."

"Oh yeah," Alistair says slowly and looks embarrassed for only a fraction of a moment before he's shrugging at Cullen. "It's not like I use it much. Seems like too much effort to move, uh, Ser Barris out of his place."

Ser Barris had been more than willing to allow Alistair to work with him in the small room set aside for the Templars as it was his men that were having the most problems with the Wardens. He'd expressed interest in working with the new Commander of the Gray to resolve those issues. A resolve that appears to be entirely one sided. "Alistair..."

"Whoa, hey! I know that tone. You got that from Ser Ostin! He always used that tone when he caught be going through the pantry," Alistair grins, but there's an edge to it and Cullen can see he's standing straight. Feet planted firmly and shoulders loose in a way he's only ever seen them get when the man is getting ready to fight. "Look, it's really nice the Inquisition set me up with an office and all. Real official stuff there. And I guess I can see why you'd want it to be the same room as Barris. Wardens and Templars can't seem to stop pulling each other's hair around here, but," Alistair stops to take a breath and his jaw works from one side to another a bit. "But it really doesn't do me any good to have it."

"Go on," Cullen says after a longer moment of silence than is comfortable. Alistair is still looking out over the keep and seems to searching for something. Words probably. A miracle, as Cullen hadn't thought the man capable of not blurting out anything on his mind given a chance.

"There's a lot we can't -_won't_\- share," when Alistair looks to Cullen there is very little of the joking man he is used to seeing there. Alistair looks at him with hard, dark eyes. The eyes of a Gray Warden who hears the nightmare cries of Darkspawn day and night, and fights the urge to chase them to his death every time. "They become issues we must conquer or fall to. We deal with it in our own ways, and our ways don't involve allowing outsiders to see us struggle. We're Gray Wardens, we can't be seen to struggle," can't be seen as mortal. Cullen knows well the power of stories of seemingly impossible to beat men. The grave look evaporates as fast as it came and Cullen finds himself facing a grinning Alistair again. No trace of the resolute leader he'd just seen on his face. "Besides, what would I do with an office anyway? There's the War Table for missions, and I can punish my men for dumping your Templar down the well just as easily in the courtyard as in a stuffy office. What do you think about me making them clean the well in their smalls?"

"I think too many people would enjoy that," Cullen settles on saying. Neither denying nor condoning a punishment he knows full well is going to happen regardless of what he says.

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"I feel old," Alistair exclaims one day. A chair has found its way into one of the corners of his office. High backed and cushioned, and Alistair seems to have decided he does in fact want an office. Cullen's office in particular. No one expects to find him anywhere else either, and Cullen has come to accept it. It is rather nice not to be alone with nothing but the endless stream of soldiers bringing him reports at times. "Do you have any idea what a novel feeling that is?"

"Feeling old?" Cullen asks. Baffled and amused, because he's always felt too old. From the moment he looked out over the Gallows and realized he wasn't happy. Not with his position and not with the Order. "No, I'm afraid I don't know."

"Hm, perks of being a Gray Warden," Alistair leans sideways in his chair to hold a piece of paper, darkened from something Cullen doesn't want to think of, up to the light. "I never thought I'd live long enough to feel old."

Cullen knows things about the Gray Wardens. Things most people would not know due to his rank and his past. He knows the Wardens have short lifespans, and he knows the rumors about why. The rumors of exactly _how_ short those lives are. Rumors aren't fact though and Cullen puts down the requisition order he's been reading to fix his gaze on Alistair. "How long do you think you have left?"

"Ten years if I'm lucky," Alistair drops the paper into a pile by his right foot. It's the burn pile that he tend to himself very carefully each time he has to leave the room. Carefully feeding the sheets into whatever fire he has access to and staying with it until there's nothing left but ashes. "I was born under a series of unlucky stars though, so it's probably closer to five or something like that."

Alistair grins easily as he predicts his own death. Not in jest but as a simple matter of fact. Cullen can't think about how that must be. His own life is something that has only recently become a thing he can live in beyond the moment. The future is tenuous to Cullen. Unformed with only vague ideas of what can be further down the road. Having his death be such a solid and looming thing that's closer rather than further away is not something he can imagine. Not with the same ease that Alistair seems to view it as.

"It's a miracle I've lived this long though so each year is just a gift," Alistair laughs and it surprises Cullen all over again that there's no bitterness in the sound at all. "Usually when a Warden goes up against an Archdemon they don't live to tell the stories about it. It's kind of a rule you know?"

His voice hitches only on the last sentence, and Cullen doesn't press. Alistair doesn't talk about the Hero of Ferelden. Not anywhere people can hear anyway. Leliana's perch with her birds is not a place where things are overheard and thus doesn't count.

"The Inquisition likes to break rules," Cullen says eventually when it becomes clear Alistair isn't going to say anything else.

"No kidding. Mages and Templars and Wardens all living together in one area?" Alistair shakes his head in mock shame. "You're all mad to have expected that to work out."

"What are we to have had it actually work?"

"Blessed," Alistair responds immediately, "by the hand of Andraste herself, or just addled in the head by it."

.

.

The lows hit Cullen hard and fast. Infrequently, thankfully, but Cullen can't summon the strength of will to remember that as he sits on the cool floor next to his bed. Curled over his own knees and shivering from a cold that's real and a pain that feels far too real to not be. Phantom nails rake down his back. Claws catching on the knobs of his spine, teeth chewing through his flesh, and blood fills his nose.

It's not real. It was but it's not now, but Cullen can't tell the difference because the worst of it has hit him straight out of sleep. When his mind was relaxed, his guard down, and he could stop it from dragging up the worst of everything for him to live again.

It helps and it doesn't when the most unexpected face finds him. Hands he knows and doesn't hold him still and he must be saying something. Must be raving again and out of his mind because he feels like he is.

"-I could use a good cheese now that I think about it. Something sharp and aged. And not the kind of aged that turns it into a brick you can carry around for a month without going bad-"

Voices reach Cullen's ears but he blocks them out and reaches for the one that's strongest, the one he knows has to be real, because there's no way the demons would bring him into this. No way they'd bring someone he hasn't thought of in years into the attempt to break him. The stone isn't as cold as it should be under his knees and he stares at it. Watching it turn from wood planks to bloodied stone with no idea which it should be.

"I need it," he mutters and he doesn't know what he needs until he _feels_ it. Until he feels the great well of emptiness inside him and thinks about the soft blue glow of lyrium. The thought of the liquid coolness knocks the pain and voices away. Rips the hallucination apart until he's on the floor of his room with heavy hands pinning him down as he claws at the floor. "I need it!"

Teeth flash down at him in a grimace and there's pain. Real and dull as he's held tight. "Cheese? Yeah, everyone use some fine cheese."

It's not this bad usually. He knows it, knows it somewhere, somewhen, but it's this bad now and Cullen screams as he fights. Fights the hands, fights the _need_. He just fights.

.

.

"It always used to scare me," Alistair admits quietly later, and Cullen doesn't have the energy to try to figure out exactly what 'later' translates to outside. He's still shaking and cold despite being in his own bed with more blankets than he knows he owns over him. Alistair talks to him from behind, an absent presence except for the hand that's still on Cullen's side. Less for pinning him in place now than it is for giving him a solid anchor to focus on as he regains his senses. "It was too easy, and it, well..."

Alistair doesn't mention the taste of lyrium. The cool taste that is as much a scent and feeling as anything else as it flowed from the mouth to uncurl through the body. Filling it with a warmth and mix of joyful pleasure that no other drug in the world could ever hope to mimic. Cullen knows. He's found far too many fallen Templars seeking their absolution in the worst kind of substances. He'd pitied their delirium before and now that pity tastes like ashes on his tongue.

"It's not always this bad," Cullen says in a cracked and wrecked voice, because it's true and that fact has become a mantra for him. A meaningless line to pull him through that he feels most keenly when he is well.

"Yeah, well," Alistair shifts and Cullen feels that he's closer than thought. Almost pressed up against his back which would make sense if he'd tried to escape. Normally the trap over the ladder is enough to confound him in his more delirious states and keep him sequestered. Alistair would not know that however. His fingers tap erratically against him for a moment. "I'm just. Can I be glad _and_ sorry at the same time without seeming like a complete arse?"

"Why not? This is the Inquisition," Cullen closes his eyes and feels weariness leech into his limbs. Holding him tight and threatening to drag him down to a sleep he knows will not be as welcoming as his body and mind year it to be. "Would you-"

"It's past midnight by now. The soldiers will start gossiping something awful if they saw me leaving your rooms now looking all rumpled," Cullen can hear the grin and amusement before the hand on his side slides forward and becomes an arm. Knees touch the back of his and a chest presses into his back. Warm lips press softly against the bare skin of the back of his neck once, then twice before a face nestles against him. Alistair barely holds back a creaking yawn that Cullen feels more than hears. "Might as well give it _some_ kernel of truth."

It's a thought to worry about later. When Cullen is feeling more himself and the embrace of another living person doesn't seem as vital as it does now. Though he most likely won't worry too much even then.

.

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	7. Anders x Cullen 2

**All For a Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Check Kiss slot.

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* * *

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There's a fine layer of snow on the ground and Cullen half-hopes he's right when the old farm house comes into view. The windows are dark and the grounds still in a way that saddens his heart even as he knows it's for the best. His family has made their yearly trip to see his father's brother in Redcliffe. Made each year when frost makes tending the land a moot point until the weather warms again in Spring. They'll have been gone a few days already going by the weather Cullen marched through, and will be gone for several more still.

Cullen and his charge will be long gone before they even set out to come back.

"I don't think anyone is home," the mage, Anders, says through clenched teeth. He's bent nearly double behind Cullen and shivering hard. His hands balled up and stuffed into his sleeves to try to fruitlessly warm them up. His lips are turning a worrying color and he's not shivering as much as he should. Nothing he has on is made for the weather and it's a minor miracle the search party sent after the escaped mage found him alive at all.

It'd taken three days to track Anders down, and what they'd found was more icicle than human. They'd had to warm him up for two days before they dared to move for his own safety. Ser Mickhael chiding Roder and Shil for their impatience in wanting to set back for the Tower immediately. Anders' health be damned.

"We are not jailors or punishers," the older man had repeated with a stern look that worked more to impress Cullen than the other two men. "Our charge is to protect the mages from everything, even themselves."

A clear goal that Cullen understood well, but neither Shil nor Roder did. An oversight that led to Anders running off again as soon as he was able and putting enough distance between them that Michkael had been forced to divide them up to find the mage again. Something that had not pleased anyone, and Cullen is thankful that he was the one to find the mage again a day later. Stumbling around and nearly senseless from the cold he was still ill prepared for.

"No," Cullen answers and continues forward, Anders trailing miserably behind him. Silent in a way that even brief exposure to the mage at Kinloch can lead anyone to know exactly how bad off the man is. There's no padlock or keyhole on the door, and it creaks open under his hands as he lifts the latch up before twisting it. A trick that works as well as any lock. As any lock in this out of the way bit of land could need anyway. Anyone truly intent on stealing would only break through the windows anyway, as his father always used to say, and then they'd have to fix that on top of dealing with the theft. He pushes the man into the dark building before following.

The door seals off what little light there was but Cullen makes his way in through the room by memory. It's been a long time since he was last home, but everything is still laid out Exactly the same as it always has been. He finds the flint where he expects it to be and the hearth is laid out with kindling already. Coaxing a small flame to life is easy and Cullen concentrates on building it up with the wood that was laid out before they left. On hand and ready to make returning home that much easier.

The room brightens as the logs begin to catch and Cullen can feel the warmth of the fire seeping into him. He's dressed well for the weather and isn't as bad as Anders but the cold has nipped at his fingers too long and the heat is welcome. Once he's sure the fire will stay steady he back away and stands. "Sit by the fire and warm yourself."

Anders has been hovering over him and moves quickly to take his spot. Hands pale with cold shoved almost into the fire as he leans close to it. The single blanket Cullen had with him falling from his shoulders to pool on the ground as the man frowns heavily. His shivering is slowly increasing which is a good sign, though it makes his words stutter. "I don't think they'll like finding a couple of complete strangers have broken in and made themselves at home when they return. Even you being a Templar won't stop some farmer with an axe and a grudge."

"They won't mind," Cullen says with no small bemusement as he checks the prep table to find most of the makings of a stew laid out and ready. Everything that can keep for a while pre-cut so that the first warm meal after the road won't take as long. He smiles as he sweeps the herbs and tubers into the pot of covered water. He places it on its hook inside the hearth and pointedly doesn't say a single thing about who own the house. Watching the indignation boil up on Anders' face is a rather fun sport. "I doubt they will return for a good few days either."

"Of course," Anders says, and it'd be a cold tone of voice if he weren't so cold and miserable. The mage doesn't like the thought of Cullen helping himself to some strangers belongings, but is in far too bad of a shape to protest it much. Cullen pulls the blanket back up over the mage's stiff shoulders and gets a lack luster glare for his trouble. "Because a fire laid out and food on the table means the rightful owners will stay away for a few weeks."

"Exactly," Cullen replies with a grave nod of his head that hides the slight curve his lips want to take. "Watch the stew so it doesn't boil over. I will return shortly."

Cullen strides away from a stuttered protest. There will be dried meat in the cellar out back. That storage area will be locked though, and Cullen reaches behind a cracked pitcher on a desk near the door for the key hidden there before venturing out into the cold again. The wind is biting after being inside, so Cullen wastes no time hurrying around the house. He can look around in the morning if he still feels inclined to see what, if anything, has changed.

The lock is stubborn and it takes a few good yanks to get the key to catch. He nearly trips on a bag going down the stairs into the dark though, and Cullen curses silently as he reaches into one of the pockets sewn into his cloak. The philter of lyrium is filled enough that the blue glow keeps him from finding another sack the same way. He goes towards the back of the solid shelves. Passing the fruit preserves and still drying bundles of herbs his mother takes great pride in. The back shelves seem to bow under the weight of what is held there, and Cullen's pleased to know his family will be well kept this Winter. He chooses a small wrapped bit of what he knows is either dried stag or nug. The softest meat that will only keep for a few months, and must be eaten first.

His eyes linger wistfully on the preserves, but the jars are few and Cullen already knows from Mia that this past season wasn't as good for the crops as it was for the animals. He leaves without them and makes sure the cellar is secured before turning back to the house, and nearly falling right over something far larger than a bag of turnips.

"Maker-" Cullen bites off the curse with a huffed laugh as the shadow moves in a familiar way and he's nearly dropped on his arse by an affectionate dog. "Hey there, Pert. What are you still doing here?"

Cullen drops to his knee and gets an exceedingly cold nose shoved into his neck for the trouble as he scratches the old dog behind his stubby ears. Pert wriggles in his arms and keeps pressing harder against him as he pants happily. The answer to his question becomes obvious when Cullen notices the dog favoring one leg.

"You're getting too old for long trips, aren't you?" Cullen rakes his fingers down the dog's back before fighting his way back up to his feet. It's no surprise. Pert had been getting slow the last time Cullen had seen him and that was years ago. Mother must have left him with someone nearby to watch while they were away. He's not cold enough to have been bunking out in the barn. "Come on, boy, lets get inside where we belong."

Pert barks, happy and sharp as he makes his way ahead of Cullen. Slow in a way that's painful to watch for him. He's a dog past his time, and Cullen knows it won't be long before Mia writes about his passing. It settles heavy and hard in his stomach as Pert waits at the door for him to open it. Head cocked back and stubby tail wagging.

For as slow and old as Pert is, he's fast when he needs to be. Cullen grins as Anders makes a startled and indignant noise when the dog barrels into the home and hone in on him immediately. Cold nose pressing inquisitively against every part of the man it can touch as he sniffs the mage, and Cullen thinks it was a good thing he made Anders wear his blanket earlier. Pert is not aggressive without reason, but Cullen's scent on Anders turns an ordeal Cullen knows can be frightening into something far more amusing.

For Cullen that is. Anders seems outraged at the enthusiastic tongue bath he's getting and isn't shy about being vocal about it. "Get this beast off me! Maker, your breath stinks!"

There's letters on the desk when he returns the key. Spilling out of one of the sections and written in a hand he knows too well. Cullen hadn't thought he'd been gone long enough for Anders to get into any sort of mischief. His own fault really, he should know better than to assume when it comes to this mage. "If you're feeling well enough to snoop you can save yourself from Pert."

"That's your fault," Anders exclaims but he's sitting up now and pushing Pert away without falter. The dog goes reluctantly and is soon sniffing at the hearth with interest. "I was going to leave some coins behind for the trouble. You could have told me this belongs to your family!"

In the morning Cullen will lay out more wood and kindling in the hearth, and will make sure he leaves out more fixings for stew on the prep table. He'll also leave a note though he's mostly sure his mother will know who had been in her home simply by the cut of the tubers. He'll also place a few coins around the place. In areas where it won't be obvious because his family won't accept it otherwise even though Cullen's told them often he doesn't _need_ his full pay. Still, it's nice to think that Anders had thought to leave his own form of reparations out.

"I wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out," Cullen unwraps the meat, nug, and uses his own dagger to slice it into small chunks. It's smoked and salted, enough to finish off the stew when he dumps it in to warm up. The liquid is starting to steam and it won't be long before they can eat. It won't be as good as anything that's had time to simmer together, but it will be warm and filling and that's all they need. "They wouldn't mind even if we were complete strangers though so long as we used no more than what we needed."

There isn't much around Honnleath but wilderness. Anyone traveling alone in these areas is usually in some form of trouble, and, as long as they don't bring any harm, the people who live in the area are inclined to offer help to those people. It's a wary kindness, but Cullen grew up watching a wide variety of strangers sitting before this hearth and gulping down a quick stew like it was the finest food in the world. Thin men and women with haunted or despairing looks. Most grateful for the kindness they sorely needed, and only a few stupid enough to think they could abuse it. The village is remote and there are certain types of people who like to settle into remote places where they can barely be found, and Cullen's seen more than a few strangers get driven off when they outstay their welcome.

Anders is using a corner of the blanket to wipe the dog spit from his face and Cullen can only see his suspicious eyes as he backs away from the hearth and reaches for the buckles of his armor. It's done well to keep him warm, but now in front of a fire it is holding the cold in. "That's uncommonly kind of them. Last time I met people who would freely give me food they tried to put me in chains and ship me off to Tevinter as a slave."

"Honnleath is the last village you will find before entering the Wilds. People find themselves in trouble here all the time. Kindness withheld will only lead to death," Cullen frowns as he stacks the armor as well as he can against the wall. He shivers a little as the air hits him, but keeps going. This is the fourth attempt Anders has made to run from the Circle. The first where Cullen has been chosen to track him down, but he's heard stories of the other times. "Finding yourself in bad situations seems to be something you excel at though. You might want to think about that the next time you think you want to leave the Circle."

"What? Live in that isolated prison until I go senile with old age?" Anders' face is mulish and stubborn as he wraps the blanket back around him. Pert sniffs his way back around to Anders and gives off a content wuff before collapsing. Sprawling out so that he's half on the fire warmed stones of the hearth and half pinning the man down to the floor. Much to Anders' dismay as he tries to futilely push Pert's head out of his lap. "I'd miss out on seeing so many wonderful things!"

"Like the inside of a slavers ship?" Cullen asks as he checks the stew to see it only just starting to bubble a little. "Or the bottom of the lake?"

"I saw a fox," Anders says stubbornly. His hands flex on Pert before giving up and splaying out. Fingers burrowing into the dogs fur as he shivers again. Or perhaps still. His lips are still off colored even with the heat of the fire starting to penetrate the house. "They're in all the books. Fox this, fox that, but I didn't know what one looked like until then."

_It's too dangerous,_ Cullen doesn't say because Anders is winding up for an argument that he's had already with the other Templars. With all the senior mages, and anyone who dares broach the subject with him in the Tower. No arguing will satisfy the man's hunger to go out into the world and explore it. No reasoning will make him change his mind that he wouldn't be better off out in a dangerous world that would rather see him dead than alive. Nothing Cullen says will change that and so he says nothing even as he knows it is better to keep Anders safely in the confines of Kinloch Hold. For all that he is a healer with good intentions he is still a mage, and little in life is easy for them it would only take time before disaster hit.

Cullen reaches out and Anders' hands are still ice cold. The man flinches from the touch a little and buries them even further into Pert's fur. He's been out in the weather for too long with too little. Cullen doesn't doubt that it is only his own magic that has kept him from frostbite or worse.

"You're still freezing," Cullen says instead and doesn't think anything of sitting behind the man and wrapping his arms around him. It gets cold in Honnleath and Cullen has many memories of doing just this in front of the fire many days with his siblings. The fire is always good for chasing the cold away, but another body pressed up against a person always makes the process faster. "Lean back."

"You're not a Templar," Anders mutters as he slowly does as instructed. Hissing a little as Cullen reaches forward to cover the back of his cold hands with his own. Sandwiching them between two sources of warmth. "You're an oversized mabari that slobbers slightly less."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" Anders does not answer for once and relaxes bit by reluctant bit. Cullen can almost feel the warmth returning to the man once he's fully limp. It leaks in slowly and he hears the man's breathing stutter as it brings feeling back into his cold extremities. Anders' knuckles go white again, but from something other than cold this time. "Does it hurt?"

Anders open his mouth to respond but his breath comes out as a louder his and he flinches. A fully body thing that turns him into a rigid statue again. Feeling must be rushing back to him in a flood. Good for his health but not pleasant to feel at all even with the magic he's no doubt used. Pert whines as a few pained noises escape Anders and wriggles closer until his large body is pressed tight to the both of them. And maybe Cullen is partially mabari because he finds himself doing the same thing on his side. Curling over and around the pained mage. Caught between patting him and trying to press as much warmth as possible into the parts of him Cullen can reach.

It's not until the pain recedes and the noises Anders makes almost sound like words again that Cullen realizes what he's doing. That his left hand is cupping one side of Anders' face and he's pressing his face against the other side. Lips sliding along his cheek as he repeats soothing words and phrases that he remembers his mother saying the few times he was sick as a child. Or when one of them would inevitably fall through the shallow end of the iced over and and come running home to unthaw.

_Sympathy is to be expected_, Cullen recalls the words drilled into him as he turns his face away with an embarrassed flush, _but distance must be maintained._

Cullen holds on until the syllables become understandable curses, and he has to let go to stop the stew from boiling over. He keeps his distance when he settles back down to eat, and doesn't smile when Pert tries to steal the bowl right from Anders' hands. He ignores the confused looks from the mage and answers with curt words when asked a question. Distance. He forgot it in the familiar setting of his home, and with nowhere to run to regain it physically he focuses instead on getting it mentally.

He's a Templar with a duty to complete, but he can't escape the phantom scratch of light stubble against his lips no matter how hard he blocks out the increased prattle from the mage he's bound to drag back.

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	8. The Iron Bull x Cullen

**All For a Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Forehead Kiss slot.

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* * *

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The force of the impact steals the breath from him and paralyzes his lungs. For several minutes he lays there, very still, and tries not to panic as he works to force them to take in air again. Spots of light flash before his eyes and Cullen knows enough not to think it's just the lack of air as he finally manages to drag in one gulping gasp. Rough and ragged, it's utterly painful but necessary. Cullen does it again and again until he's able to sit up and take the scorn he knows is coming.

The Iron Bull is standing above him grinning as he waits patiently for Cullen to climb back to his feet. Shield still ready for another bashing and Cullen finds it in himself to feel amazed that the thick wood of it isn't cracked or splintered. He has a new appreciation for the man's second as well. Krem faces this brute force every day willingly. Any man who can do that _and_ keep his feet is someone to be respected in Cullen's books.

"Need a breather?" Bull asks with a smirk though Cullen knows the man won't begrudge him one if says yes. Needle him about it endlessly? Yes, but he won't push too far about it. The qunari is used to be an overpowered giant among a land of smaller people. "Or you want to give it another shot?"

Cullen breathes and rolls his left shoulder. Feeling the joint pop and crack as he tests the limits of his body. His arm is still flashing from tingles of numbness to pain. He'll have a magnificent bruise on his elbow come tomorrow and his bones will be protesting this abuse for a while. His wrist is fine though and his shoulder is well enough that he picks the heavy shield up again and sets his feet with a grin of his own. "Maybe you should stop holding back. I think I can take another few hits."

Bull's laugh rings out in the courtyard and Cullen grunts as the man charges. He's holding back still as this one doesn't do more than jolt Cullen's shoulder and push him back a few feet. "That the best-"

Cullen grunts as he's hit again from up close and far harder than he has been yet. The shock knocks the breath from him again and the jarring impact with the ground makes him see sparks. Cullen coughs hard and manages to get his lungs working quicker this time, but only at the cost of some truly pitiful noises he will deny to his dying day. A shadow blocks the sun from his eyes and Cullen looks up.

"Bad idea to think I need to run to put you on your ass, Cullen," Bull is crouched over his head and Cullen knows he should have called it quits a while back, but stubbornness had made him hold out. "You're better at being an unstoppable force than an immovable object anyway."

The comment is a compliment and Cullen takes it as gracefully as he can manage. Less so when Bull continues to crouch over him with the grin that hasn't wavered a single bit since this started. He's still and expectant and Cullen groans in defeat. "Fine, yes, you can use the trebuchet. Teach me to let you goad me into a foolish bet."

Bull leans down and plants a wet, strangely soft kiss right in center of his forehead. His grin is wider and more than a little frightening when he stands up. Hauling Cullen up as well with very little effort. He sways a bit but Bull puts a solid arm around him companionably. "Look at it this way, it'll be good for morale. I'll even let you launch one or two yourself and you'll see why I have the best ideas."

"I thought you only had one," Cullen protests weakly as he's dragged along. Bull isn't actually letting go even though the world is steady now under his feet. Curiosity eats at him though, and Cullen recognizes it as the same gleeful curiosity that had gotten his backside tanned more than once as a child.

"Nah, Krem's been up all night sewing the little stuffed nugs," Bull sweeps his way into the tavern and a little cheer goes up from the corner that's occupied by the Chargers more often than not. There are, Cullen notes, _two_ barrels of winged nugs with them. Krem sits next to them with a neutral look that doesn't match the unholy glee in his eyes. Bull chuckles and squeezes almost painfully. "Alright, Chargers! Get those up to the battlements!"

Cullen sighs and wonders, not for the first time, what kind of stars he was born under.

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	9. Fenris x Cullen

**All For a Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Kiss in the Rain slot.

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* * *

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It rains for a week after and Kirkwall seems to just shut down under it. It's not even the usual rain the city gets. No lashing wind and torrential deluge to drown in. It's a softer rain. Steady and just enough to throw the city into a haze. Like a dreamer reluctant to open their eyes and exchange the Fade for reality.

The Gallows is more silent than any other place save, perhaps, the crater where the Chantry once stood. Cullen walks the halls and looks through emptied rooms. Occasionally picking up some small, personal item that's been abandoned and looking at it for an hour or more. The Gallows is empty mostly. The mages gone before Meredith had been declared dead. Slipped out of the city while Cullen watched and did nothing to stop them. Templars followed. One by one the older knights had gone out with hate or despair in their eyes. The few who stay still with him are younger. Mostly new recruits who haven't reached the level needed for their Vigil. They look to him with uncertain eyes and shaky resolve that Cullen cannot bear to look at.

He has no answers for them, no ready explanation to comfort them. As the highest ranking officer, duty dictates...

Duty dictates much, and the rules and vows and everything that he's known and held dear to lay heavy on his mind. Burnt and fouled to the point where Cullen's not sure everything he is, all that he's worked for, isn't a lie. He'd grown to doubt Meredith so strongly. Strongly enough to turn against her, but it was his faith to the Order than made him stay so close to her side for so long. To make excuses and turn his eyes when that was the last thing he should have ever done.

There are bodies stacked in the cooler rooms of the Gallows. Waiting for the rain to stop long enough to be properly dealt with. Though the number of bodies would make it easy for any pyre started to burn even through this rain. Mages, Templars, Guards, and civilians alike wait and they all share the same frozen look of fear on their faces.

Cullen wanders the rooms of the dead to avoid the men and women looking to him for guidance. He focuses on the minutiae of their lives. A plain little pendant on a cord, found in the fold of one of the mage's beds. A scrap of paper sticking out from the pages of a book in a senior knight's room, a list of items to buy from the market. Little things that don't matter any longer but he allows to absorb all of his attention regardless.

Anything to keep it from straying out to the courtyard where the vicious red glow of Meredith can clearly be seen even through the rain. It doesn't work as often as he wishes it would.

Three days pass before Cullen's helpless gaze catches on something new in the courtyard. A blue glow that pulls him out into the rain with an unease that only abates when he sees the sharp outlines of dark, spiked armor.

The elf is a companion of the Champion. One that Cullen has actually spoken to on a few occasions. Usually brief encounters where Fenris had asked the sort of pointed questions Cullen is used to hearing from people thinking about joining the Order, and sharing his views that Cullen had once thought safely predictable given his background. It says something about the Gallows that Fenris had followed Hawke without hesitation when the man chose to oppose Meredith. Cullen relaxes his hold on his sword and slows his stride. He stops some several feet away because the elf is closer to Meredith that is safe.

"I would not recommend getting any closer," Cullen says and his voice nearly gives out on the last word. It's the first ones he's spoken in a little over two days. He coughs harshly and licks his lips. Grateful for the cool rain that wets them enough to moisten his tongue. "I doubt _that_ will help you."

The marks on the man's skin glow a blue so light it's white at the edges. Familiar to any Templar or mage as lyrium. Even when not active though now it sings to him sweetly in a way that makes Cullen abruptly aware of the last time he'd measured out a dose of lyrium.

Fenris steps back slowly. His eyes not leaving the grotesque statue that used to be a living being until he's nearly level with Cullen. It's a degree of superstitious caution he can't fault him for. Cullen himself feels the need to check to make sure Meredith hasn't moved every few hours after all. The intense glow of the markings fade, and Cullen almost asks but he's sure there are better things to speak of right now. None of Hawke's people would be here willingly otherwise.

"Varric has arranged for dwarven miners to come for it in the morning," Fenris says when he looks away and fixes his steady gaze on Cullen instead. "Lyrium miners. He says they have things designed to contain the effects of it."

"I'll be glad for it," the sooner Meredith -for Cullen cannot think of the red lyrium as anything less than her body- is gone the better. There's a fragile peace about the city right now. One that he knows is going to crash soon, and most likely it will be brought on by someone coming for answers. He does not want to think about it but he knows this will be the first thing they look for. The first thing they will want to touch and study and damn the effects. "They'll have what help we can offer should they need it."

"They won't ask," Fenris dismisses immediately, and Cullen waits.

Waits patiently for more words or for the man to leave. The latter seemingly the more likely option. Fenris has always been a presence seen but rarely heard when Cullen has dealt with Hawke before. A stoic man who held his tongue more often than not and let his actions speak for him. Violent actions, but still expressive enough to get his point across.

Fenris does neither things though. He does not leave and he says nothing more. He simply stands there and frowns. A crease cutting into his forehead and giving the rain a new structure to run down. He's looking at Cullen like the others do, but there's no uncertainty or shakiness in his gaze thought. Just blunt puzzlement that Cullen can't answer any more than he can answer anything else.

"You're giving up," Fenris eventually states and he doesn't bother to hide the scorn in his voice as he crosses his arms over his chest. It makes the spikes on his shoulders stick out more, makes them look more dangerous.

"I'm not doing anything," Cullen responds flatly because it's true and he can't work up any anger or indignation at the accusation. "I don't know if it's escaped your notice but I helped kill my commanding officer."

"She was dangerous," Fenris dismisses immediately and that's true too. So true and simple that it makes Cullen ache for times when simple truths like that mattered. Times Cullen isn't so sure hadn't only existed in his naive mind.

"I doubt the Order or the Chantry will see it that way," Cullen shifts and the slight move opens up a gap in his armor along his back. The rain starts to immediately slip in. "As you are well aware of, or are you telling me your friends haven't been making plans to be as far from here as possible before anyone can come running?"

Kirkwall is paralyzed by the events, but Cullen is still very much aware of the movements of the city. Meredith had demanded to be kept informed of every move of the Champion of Kirkwall and his associates after all. He knows they'll be gone with the first tide in the morning.

"We are running," Fenris admits with a small dismissive shrug, like that fact is not a big deal. "We are not giving up though."

"Not giving up _what_ though?" The question bursts out of Cullen with more force than he's been capable of bringing out for a good deal longer than these past few days. "What is it that you all plan on doing?"

What are you fighting for? What do you hope to accomplish? The questions pile up on his tongue but he won't ask them all, because letting them all out will break something in him. Something that Cullen didn't realize wasn't broken before along with everything else.

"Living," Fenris answers after a pause that's thoughtful and his eyes shift to the left slightly before locking back on Cullen. "I've been told that it's a goal worthy of fighting for. Even if you must run for a while. As for what we plan to do? Whatever we think is necessary to accomplish that."

A singularly selfish goal and Cullen laughs because it sounds like the grandest plan he's ever heard of. He laughs because he's watched Hawke and his group for years now, and he knows that _somehow_ the more selfish they get the more people they will end up saving. They are a group some of the most reprehensible people Cullen's ever seen, and they all manage to do more good than he's seen out of the Order in years.

"You do that," Cullen says when the laughter dies and the exhaustion he's felt for the past few days rushes back in. Stealing what little light the bitter joke had brought to him.

"You should consider it as well," Fenris shifts now. Pivoting on the balls of his feet so he's in front of Cullen and not beside him.

"I'm not very good at running," hiding, yes, but Cullen's always had problems with retreating.

"Living," Fenris corrects. His arms drop and he brings his right hand, curled in a loose fist, up to his face. He presses the side of the fist to his lips before turning it and placing it on Cullen's armor. Directly over his heart in a gesture that's nonsense to Cullen but freezes him fast anyway. "I think you once knew how."

Fenris turns without another word and the rain swallows up his form. Cullen stares after the man for a while yet and tries to remember if that was ever true.

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	10. Alistair x Cullen 2

**All For a Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Drabble for a kiss meme this one for the Upsidedown Kiss slot.

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* * *

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Cullen's stumbling back to the barracks from the privy -still mostly asleep- when he hears a voice coming from the horse stables. Late night trysts in the hayloft are common. Common enough the senior knight instructors make regular checkups on it that don't actually deter the meetings. Cullen thinks it's an awful place for anything vaguely romantic and that the vegetable gardens the Sisters and Brothers tend is both better and more practical but not many of his peers ask for his opinion when it comes to things like this. Cullen usually ignores it as best he can. It's the frantic note to the muttering that convinces Cullen not to walk right on by and pretend he heard nothing this time though.

There's only one voice when Cullen eases through the cracked door, and a lamp gutters on a stool in the middle of it. Casting light on the still forms of the horses and a sight that is both bizarre and utterly expected. Anyone else, anyone at all, and Cullen would be surprised to come upon them dangling upside down in the stables at the middle of the night.

"Alistair," Cullen sighs the young man's name wearily. Unconsciously copying the tone of so many of their instructors. "What have you done now?"

"It wasn't my fault!" The denial is quick and automatic, and has half a chance of being true. He whirls his arms in the air and the momentum is enough to send him spinning. The ropes Cullen can now see tangled tight around his legs creak until he's mostly facing Cullen. His face is red. Either from embarrassment or from being upside down. His eyes are wide and pleading in a way no man his age should be able to pull off. "Help me?"

Cullen rubs his eyes hard before looking around. He drags a barrel over and finds a reasonably sharp blade that's normally used to pry rocks from the horses hooves. There's already hay on the ground and Cullen abruptly remembers that Alistair had been given mucking duties for punishment. "Have you been like this all night?"

"No," the ropes are truly tangled when Cullen examines them. Alistair grabs onto him by his trousers as he starts to spin again from Cullen's testing pulls. "Can't say how long I've been like this though. Kind of lost track with all the screaming for help that only scared off the stupid cat responsible for this."

"you're blaming this on a cat?" Cullen asks and lets himself smile only because Alistair likely won't be able to see it and thus won't be encouraged. Theoretically. He doesn't truly need encouragement to keep going where wiser men would pause.

"Yes! Evil, beady-eyed thing. I think it's been bunking down for free out here for a while now."

That would explain the lower number of pests lately. Cullen doesn't press for more though because he's fairly sure he doesn't want to know. There's no undoing the rope by hand -as he'd suspected- so Cullen carefully slides the knife under a strand and starts to saw away at it. Alistair's grip goes tight as he starts to spin again, almost throwing Cullen's balance off before he corrects it. He works as fast as he can but the blade is dull and the rope grows tighter the more he cuts off. Alistair's weight pulling the whole mess into a different configuration with each strand gone.

"maker, did you roll in every rope coil we have?" Cullen shifts lower to ease the strain on his shoulder a bit. A pile of the cut rope builds up on the ground but he still can't find the load bearing one to free Alistair easily.

"Hurry. Please," something bumps into his stomach and he feels it move as Alistair groans. "I'm going to be sick!"

"Not on me!" Cullen pulls harder even as he resigns himself to being vomited on. Alistair's holding him far too tightly for an easy escape should it come to that.

Distracted, Cullen misses the way the rope starts to fray and split easier than it has been until the section he's holding slides out of his hand suddenly. It hisses softly as it moves and Alistair _drops_. The man's arms spasm and Cullen grits his teeth as it all seems to happen slow enough for him to know what's going to happen.

Alistair's weight goes one way and the barrel under Cullen's feet goes the other. He's weightless for a brief moment, and aware enough of it to throw the dagger far away, before the ground meets them with unforgiving force for something that was only a few feet away. Cullen rolls on instinct but Alistair doesn't and he ends up painfully twisted. Half over and half under Alistair's heavier frame.

"Crap," Alistair manages to choke out after a moment of pain filled silence. He drags the word out excessively long and twists enough to dig his elbow or knee into Cullen's side. Cullen grunts and pushes out with all the force he can manage to roll tha man off him, or at least away from his more vulnerable areas. "Thanks, Cullen."

"Yeah," Cullen brings his knees up and focuses on breathing for a bit. It feels like Alistair landed on his gut with all the weight the man has, and he needs just a moment to recover from that. Possibly several.

They're moment that Alistair obvious does not need. The man sits up and looms over him looking concerned. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine," or will be soon enough that it doesn't matter. There's no use being annoyed over it. The emotion isn't worth the minor inconvenience. Which is usually true for most things when Alistair is involved. Who is now hovering over Cullen with an even more worried look. Face slowly returning to normal with no obvious signs of ill effect. Cullen asks to be sure though, "And you?"

"Fine! Perfectly fine, maybe even fine-er? I can't say I'm fine-est, but I never really am that, so I guess I'm just fine," Alistair speaks quickly. The words rolling off his tongue faster than his mind can react. As good a sign as anything of his state of being. Just like the mischievous grin that replaces the concerned look as he kneels over Cullen's head. The alarming sight odd when viewed upside down. Cullen still tenses automatically at the sight of it.

"Alistair..." Cullen says in a warning he doesn't complete.

"Oh! Ser Cullen, my savior!" Alistair clasps his hands under his chin as he flutters his eyes and coos in an obnoxiously high falsetto. "However can I repay you?"

"Don't," Cullen groans because the _ass_ is still going on about the incident from last week. The one Cullen's done his level best to forget despite the constant reminders from all sides about it.

One of the Sisters has an Orlisian brother, or cousin. Maybe son, no one was too sure of the details when he's swept into the Chantry for some reason that was also vague. A distraction and potential threat, but not one that mattered to the recruits who were told to steer clear. An order which should have concluded the matter except for one thing. The man had brought his two daughters with him. Barely old enough to be called women they'd turned more heads than they should have with their cooing and fluttering. An annoyance easily ignored until they saw something that made that impossible. Both had taken a liking to Cullen when they found out how much their fluttering about truly bothered him. The tormenting had been relentless and amused everyone much to Cullen's great dismay. Ended only when one took the flirtations inappropriately far by engineering a fall and rescue. Tripping Cullen up with her layer skirts and landing on his chest was bad enough, but the kiss she'd forced on him before he could extract himself nearly got him hung.

"Oh, Ser Cullen!" Alistair's high voice cracks and breaks with laughter as he leans down with pucker up lips and kisses him. More the press of his nose to Cullen's chin and the warm puffs of breath as the man laughs too hard to even _try_. Unasked for and made to poke fun of him just like the other kiss. Though he's not paralyzed by surprise for this one.

It's part spite, and part something else that Cullen doesn't want to examine too closely that has him grabbing the back of Alistair's head to pull him down. He stops the laughter with a firmer kiss that makes his lips tingle. His nose rests uncomfortably on Alistair's chin, and the man's lips are too slack from surprise to keep the kiss firm. Cullen dares to part his mouth and slowly lick across the opening he's being given once before pulling away completely.

Alistair _gapes_ down at him. His face is red again though for an entirely different reason this time. Cullen smirks up at him, feeling smug and satisfied as he rolls up to his feet. "You are most welcome."

Cullen leaves then without trying to find any other words to say. Quickly because the secret to dealing with Alistair is to leave him when he's speechless, or run the risk of having the man keep trying for the last word. It also allows Cullen the dignity of running away before he has to explain why he's slowly blushing darker than he had last week with the flirty woman whose name he's already forgotten was perched right in his lap. He'll truly never hear the end of it if Alistair sees that.

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	11. Dorian x Cullen 3

**All For A Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

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* * *

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Cullen's chest is a map of scars. Old wounds and new ones carved into his flesh and leaving behind raised welts of shiny skin or divots of missing flesh. It's a story. One of pain and suffering. The twists and turns of which Dorian can plainly read on the body laid bare before him if he so chose to. Dorian does not chose to though. It's a story for him but truth for Cullen. A truth that sticks in him when asked but will eventually come out. Dorian is willing to wait for it.

Cullen has lived this story of pain, and it's hard to begrudge him the time to relate it or the tics that have come from it. Hard but not entirely impossible. Dorian slides a hand over to the not so fresh anymore bandage on his side and fixes Cullen with a hard look.

"It's been tended," Cullen protests automatically though he doesn't pull away from Dorian's probing fingers. "You need not put yourself out to tend me."

"Healing is not my forte," Dorian starts to peel the bandages away. Carefully because they've stuck as the blood and whatever salve he used dried. "I'm doing nothing more than practicing my nonexistent skills in this area on you."

He doesn't flinch under Dorian's touch but his body tenses. Dorian ignores it and lightly traces around the newly revealed wound. A clean slice from a blade. Deep enough that it will leave a scar but not deep enough to require stitches.

Cullen flinches still when a spell is cast near him or when a mage begins to draw energy to them. Whether he sees it or not he will flinch. His Templar training still sharp despite his protests otherwise. A nearly imperceptible flinch when he knows it's coming, and only slightly more obvious when he doesn't. Dorian doubts that many have noticed outside of their little circle.

"So I am to be your test patient then," Cullen says wryly to divert Dorian's attention from the tension lining his body. "Perhaps we should retrieve more bandages and a potion to go further."

"Your faith is touching," left on its own it would heal in weeks, and the scar left behind would be small. Comparatively. Healing is a basic skill all mages learn at least the vague basics of. Enough so that it is nothing to fold energy into the cut skin and pull the two sides together again.

Weaving them together to be whole again is another matter. He's adept at it only from practice. Many of Alexius' early attempts to cure Felix had ended with him nearly sly in his own fingers off preparing herbs for potions. A menial labor but one that had been so very important at the time. As a result Dorian can handle fixing clean cuts but not much more than that.

"I'm not doubting your abilities," Cullen shivers but holds carefully still for Dorian. The nervous flex of his fingers in the blanket is unconscious and not personal at all.

"Yes you are," Dorian denies and runs a thumb over the whole skin. Imparting one last bit of energy to take away any lingering pain and take the shine out of the pink skin. The area is lighter than the skin around it but that will fade and blend in a matter of days. There will be no new scar on Cullen's body from this battle. "You know we do have actual healers on hand for this kind of mess. No need to rely on me for this."

Dorian already knows that will never happen though. The man would have to be unconscious on top of dying to allow the healers to touch him. None of their healers would be able to get the man where Dorian has him now. Relaxed under the fading remnants of magic and whole in body again.

"You do well enough. The healers are better left for those who truly need their aid," Cullen's hands unwind from the sheets and move up to rest lightly on Dorian. Warm even through his robes. "My wounds were not that serious."

"You and I have very different definitions of serious," Dorian grumbles. He smoothes his hand over Cullen's chest again. Examining the spot critically but the man doesn't flinch, and Dorian can't hold the irritation. He bends down and places a firm kiss to the spot. Letting his lips linger in a vain hope that he won't have to do this again. That Cullen might actually accept a healing spell in the field instead of waiting until he gets back to Skyhold.

"I don't think so," Cullen rumbles as his fingers come up to thread into Dorian's hair. Mussing it but also pulling Dorian up and down to lay out fully on top of his body. His smile is warm and achingly sweet to look at. "I think we both have the same definition of serious."

Dorian disagrees heartily, but he can't argue effectively when his mouth is being occupied so very thoroughly.

.

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	12. Alistair x Cullen 3

**All For A Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Follows right after chapter 6 because I could not allow these romantic dorks to not get something nice for V-Day.

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* * *

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Alistair rolls the flower between his fingers. It's easy to do now that he's removed the thorns. That'd not been a happy hour for him when he found out the rose hadn't been dethorned and had held it rather carelessly. One of the kitchen servants had found him near the well trying to extract the blasted thing himself and had the unenviable job of helping him remove it.

He can almost hear the rumors now. The big, bad Commander of the Gray felled by a tiny little flower. Reduced to tears and snotty warblings as a serving girl half his size tsked disappointingly and plucked the thing out. It'll do wonders for his reputation in Skyhold.

Not like he has much of one to begin with though. He's pretty sure the whole mystique of having one of the Wardens who ended the last Blight around was well and truly killed his first day when a swarm of bees nearly killed him.

The rose stem catches a little on the rough cotton of the bandage on his thumb, and the petals flare a little wider with the motion. He looks down at it and smiles a bit before looking out over the keep from his position on the battlements.

Color is bright and vivid where it's placed around the keep. Ribbons flutter with the wind, flowers sway in time, and everyone bustles around with a sense of eager energy that only comes out during a festivity. Spots or bands of color mark those who have received gifts early. Red colored ribbons, scarves, and trinkets marking the person as taken. Worn proudly to display they are loved and love in return.

There will be a feast later, and music to dance to. More trinkets and gifts will be exchanged throughout the day. Pretty words spoken and declarations of love made. Cheap words and declarations on some people's part, but Alistair doesn't think about those this year.

No. This year, for perhaps the first time in his life, he's thinking about the words he wants to say. The declarations he wants to make.

His heart beats faster at the thought and the rose trembles a bit as he grips it tighter, twirls it faster. The petals are already bruised and a little ragged looking from how much he's been nervously handling it. He's going to break it or tear it irreparably if he doesn't stop.

But.

But it's still beautiful. Imperfect and flawed. Scared by the rough handling of the world at large but still vivid and a wonderful sight to see. Something to look at in wonder and awe at how the wear only enhances it's beauty.

Poetic and over the top. Alistair wonders how much of that he could manage to get out in words before solidly shoving his boot in his mouth.

"Commander," Cullen's arrival isn't a surprise. Alistair heard the clank of his armor. Muffled by the furred surcoat but still easily heard on the relatively quiet battlements.

"Commander," Alistair echos with a grin as he turns to the man who could technically be called his superior. Though Alistair's fairly sure that's as far as it goes. The Inquisition has been very clear on their stance with the Gray Wardens, and how they don't want to limit them or their duties. "Nice day for a festival."

"I suppose so," Cullen's distracted for a moment as he turns to look over the keep with a vaguely disgruntled expression that melts to fondness far too fast for Alistair to be fooled. Cullen is every bit the same as Alistair. Another section off the same bolt of romantic sap cloth, and his annoyance at the loss of any productivity to the day is tempered. "There will be far too many broken hearts in the week to come to bear thinking about though."

Alistair laughs and looks down at the rose again. He stops spinning it and tries to respond but the words don't want to come. Not the ones he just thought of or the ones he's actually been practicing for a week now on the horses in the stable.

It's not like there's nothing there. No sign or inkling of reciprocation to daunt him. Alistair's held Cullen in his arms when the man was at his worst -more than once- and held him even closer when his mind returned to sanity. He still remembers the weight of him, the heat of his body, and the slightly salty taste of sweat that lingered on Alistair's lips.

There's an expectation there between them now. One neither of them has spoken of but weighs each conversation and tinges each glance. Alistair has seen Cullen open his own mouth to speak more than once only to close it and shift the conversation away to other things. Alistair's done it himself as well.

"Ah," the sound is an exhalation of breath almost lost to the wind but Cullen clears his throat harshly enough that Alistair doesn't miss it. "You received a token from someone?"

"No," the truth slips out easily enough and Alistair looks up to catch the hint of relief on Cullen's face. It bolsters his courage enough that everything else slides out with the usual grace and ease he's accustomed to. "Maker, no! Who would want to- Well, I mean, I know people would but I wouldn't want them to. I always thought this day should really mean something. It's a day meant for love, right? Who wants a token that is not truly meant or is meant only with pity? I mean, pity! Frankly I'm surprised there isn't more violence than broken hearts the next day. Which is probably why all the candy sellers stay open so long afterwards now that I think of it. No better way to erase the taste of pity than with sugar."

Cullen laughs and Alistair basks in the achievement because this is not the light laugh he gives when he thinks he should be laughing. This is the high laugh that stutters and ends in a small, barely stifled snort he gives only when he truly thinks something is funny. "If it's not a token from your admirers then why do you have it?"

"To give," Alistair says and then turns so he can hold out the flower to Cullen. It's a truly sad looking flower now that Cullen's actually here to see it, and Alistair winces. All the poetic thoughts from earlier fleeing his mind as he realizes exactly how much like a gesture of mockery this might seem without the context. "Sorry. I know it's not the best looking one of the bunch, and, wow, I didn't think I'd done that much damage to it at all. I've just been holding it. you know what? Let me just go back and get anoth-"

The rose is gone from his hands and Alistair stutters to an awkward halt because Cullen's holding it and looking at it with a look on his face that makes the necessary thought process to talk impossible. He looks at the rose with an amazed expression as he holds it carefully like the fragile thing it actually is. A warm light comes into his eyes as he smiles before looking up at Alistair.

"Yeah," Alistair says shakily and he knows -knows!- that he doesn't need anything poetic at all, because Cullen's thinking the same things he was just a moment ago. "So, just to be clear, before I say something to make me want to hurl myself off the walls, I'd like it very much if you wore my token for today."

"For today?" Cullen asks and his cheeks are tinting with a red that has nothing to do with the wind.

"Well, I'd ask forever if I thought I could get away with it," Alistair grins back and knows his face is getting the same red treatment. Maybe anyone who passes by will just think they escaped a really cold wind. "But I don't want to push my luck with that. I think I'd be pretty lucky to just have the one day really. Any more luck than that and something terrible would have to happen to me to balance it all out."

"I think enough terrible things have happened to allow it," Cullen says and some of that light in his eyes dims, but only for a moment before he's smirking and crowding up into Alistair's space. Backing him firmly up against the wall. "Forever should be a small enough price to pay for that."

Alistair wants to say something to that. Something witty and nice, but it's hard to talk when he's being kissed. Hard to want to talk at all when Cullen leans his whole body against him and their lips slot together perfectly. The warmth of their bodies igniting a fire in his chest as he holds the man close and the scent of the rose makes him dizzy enough to believe forever just might be possible.

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	13. Carver x Cullen

**Stomach Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

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* * *

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There is nothing _remotely_ appropriate about this. A hint of stubble scrapes down Cullen's skin as Carver drops to his knees, mouth dragging down with the motion. His blue eyes dark as they stay fixed on Cullen even as he reaches for the new belt cinched too tight. Cullen swallows hard and presses against the wall behind him with sweaty palms and doesn't stop him.

The belt gives with an ease that's startling only because Cullen is still too used to all the complicated buckles and ties of the Order's armored uniform. The leather trousers and broad sword belt are simpler articles of clothing he hasn't worn in well over a decade now, but Carver doesn't fumble them the way Cullen had when he dressed earlier.

It's a strangeness he must become familiar with all over again. He's made his choice. The full body armor with the symbols of the Order hammered into every inch of it lies in the rooms behind him. Rooms that will go to another now, Carver perhaps, if the Gallows don't fall first.

It likely will though. With the remaining mages following Cullen and about a quarter of the knights turning in their own shields as well it's not likely that the Gallows will last the rest of the year.

Teeth scrape down his hipbone and Cullen jerks at the faint pain of it. Torn right out of his wandering thoughts. His poor attempt to distance himself from this act he's not actually trying to stop even as his ingrained sense of duty screams to push the younger man away.

His belt falls to the floor with a clang that echoes, the sword is handled with far more care. The sound is enough to sting a reflexive reaction from Cullen despite his indecision. He gets a hand on Carver's head and does not marvel at the softness of it as he pushes. "Wait, this is no-"

"Shut up," Carver's voice is hoarse and fierce as his gaze when he looks up at him. Face focused and there's anger there. So much anger that Cullen's only ever seen the man direct towards his brother before. It falters slightly as Cullen says nothing. A bit of uncertainty entering it and there's distance between them now. Not physically but there all the same. "Unless you really mean it I don't want to hear another damn word."

The words catch in Cullen's throat.

It's inappropriate. Carver is _his_ recruit. He sponsored his request and mentored the young man through his training all the way to claiming his knighthood. He's still considered a junior knight even now that he's one of the most experienced ones left still alive. A knight under Cullen's command. Only...

Cullen's not a knight anymore. He's neither Templar nor Knight-Captain. No longer Carver's superior and perhaps that is what prompted this.

Cullen allows himself to look down on Carver. Still on one knee before him. The fingers of one hand still under the laces of his right boot, and the other fisted in the now loose folds of his trousers. Holding them up as he waits for an answer. The brush of his knuckles against bare skin and the wash of his heated breath a statement of intent that's unmistakable.

It's an adjustment of thinking because Cullen has not thought of this before, not with Carver. With one notable exception, Cullen is not in the habit of looking for such things in those around him. Not unless they seek him out first. A rare occurrence that always takes him off guard and his reaction -flustered only because he's ill prepared- usually ends the encounter before it's begun. Usually but not always as Carver proves by waiting. Perhaps not patiently but stubbornness can counted as a virtue in Kirkwall.

The stubble Carver seems to always cultivate scratches the pads of Cullen's fingers as he reaches for the man's face. Cullen says nothing still. If he tries, he's sure he'll only start in on how they _can't_ out of sheer habit.

Carver doesn't need his words though, the touch is enough. His smirk burns against the muscles of Cullen's stomach as his hands fly to life again. Cullen's knees buckle and his own hands get to work with the buckles and closures he's still so familiar with. With the bare skin he's not familiar with just yet.

It's not appropriate at all but it's no longer Cullen's place to care about such things.

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	14. Corypheus x Cullen

**Underwater Kiss  
**

**Notes:** So, yes, implied death and dark content here. Such a terrible idea. What could have been in that dark future. Anyway, the pairing really is only there if you squint and allow yourself to think bad, bad things about Corypheus. I should not be allowed to think those things really.

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* * *

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In the end he breaks every promise he ever made. The others, to himself, and even to the Maker.

Cullen turned back to lyrium when Orlais fell, doubled the dose when the demon armies had overrun Haven, and hadn't said a word when Fiona's mages turned to blood magic in the very end despite how hard he'd argued against it. It was a useless last strike that hadn't worked even with all the inside help Fiona's people could provide. The Inquisition was overrun and utterly destroyed.

Cullen knows why he was spared. The intention of keeping a handful of them had been clear in the gloating eyes of the Venatori cultists. It'd just been hard to care overmuch at the time filled as he was with far too much lyrium and no place at all to let all that energy go while they bound him with far too many spells to purge. At least not until they chained him to a solid spire of glowing red lyrium.

It had burned. The lyrium of the stone fighting with what was already in his veins. Tendrils of corruption greedily sinking into him and being fought off immediately. Less successfully as the days wore on and his reserves ran dry.

Cullen thinks he might have screamed the day the blue in his veins collapsed under the relentless tide of red around him. He thinks he did but it's hard to remember anything after that. It feels like he's underwater. Under a pond made up of thick red water that curls around his limbs and pulls him deeper and deeper with every breath he takes. It fills his eyes and ears. Muting the world around him and imprisoning him in his own mind.

They come back for him eventually, and Cullen doesn't know he's being unchained until the shift of his body makes nausea roll through him. Hands, cold and hard, catch him before he falls but he barely notices them. The world is red and the men dragging him away from his cell are lost in it.

He's lost in an entire ocean of red lyrium and there's nothing around him that can break through it. Despair is familiar to Cullen. Bitter and heavy without even the chance of hope to lighten it.

The world flips around him as he's released, but Cullen keeps his feet under him even as his head falls to his chest. He's breathing hard. He can tell from the way his chest moves but he can't really hear it. The red sea roils around him with something more than just being moved for the first time in-

Cullen can't even say how long. Not with any sort of confidence.

"Mortal."

The voice cuts through the red like a well honed blade. Parting the silence with a force that makes his heaving lungs still at the power of it.

The Elder One regards him disdainfully from his throne. The oversized seat made of the rotting corpses of the fallen to accommodate his monstrous frame. Corypheus, as his faithful cultists call him, is clear in the red haze the world has become. His twisted features all that Cullen can see now, and the shackles still on his hands are not needed. Cullen could not strike out at the magister if he tried. It's all he can do to keep his feet under him now.

Blood tipped, clawed fingers curl in a beckoning gesture and the red deep inside his veins lurches to obey. Cullen groans as he walks forward. Reluctant and fighting a battle he's already lost a dozen or more times. Not stopping until Corypheus' hand curls around the back of his head. The sharp claws holding him still so that he cannot look away from the eyes studying him intently. Distant but fascinated as a man studying some new and exotic insect.

The hand is broad enough to engulf his whole head and the strength in it could crush his skull without a thought. Cullen wishes it would though he knows better than to hope for it.

"Your Inquisition has failed," the monster's scarred lips twist in a smirk, and Cullen chokes as he leans close. The heat of his breath is foul with corruption and the red in Cullen _glows_ at it. "The best that man had to offer and you are finished. Your army lies in ruins and nothing is left to stop the rest of the world from bowing down before their new god as has always been intended."

"You are no god," Cullen manages to grit out through the compulsion to remain silent. It hurts to say but Cullen revels in the small defiance.

Corypheus laughs. Cold and terrifying as he sits back in the throne. Back as straight as his corrupted bones allow, and hand maddeningly gentle around Cullen. Pointedly so.

"No," the magister agrees far too easily. "Not yet. I must still open the Fade to take what is mine."

Cullen doesn't understand. The Fade is already open. Has been open since they lost the Herald. Demons flooding the world faster than they could keep up with even before the Venatori raised up a demon army somehow.

"And there will be no one to interfere with the sacrifice this time," Corypheus continues though he hardly seems to care if Cullen hears or understands as he rises. A strangely elegant motion that leaves him towering over Cullen. "Kneel before me mortal."

The hand leaves. Uncurling from Cullen's head finger by finger and there's a rushing sound in his ears. They're not alone as Cullen had thought, but the figures of the men around him are lost in the returning waves of red as clarity -he hadn't noticed it returning to him but it had for one brief moment- recedes. The red lyrium in him echoing and pulsing in time with the command.

Kneel.

Kneel before the monster. _Kneel before his god._ Maker, but Cullen wants to kneel with the same longing ache he felt when he went off lyrium for that short time.

_Kneel._

The compulsion is beyond his ability to fight and he feels his knees bending even as he tries to fight. His defiance shattering into a thousand shards of glass that grind and cut him to ribbons as he chokes on a washed out rage. His knees touch the stone too easily and the bloodied claws are back in his sight. Curled around something round.

"Be thankful," Corypheus soothes darkly. "Your sacrifice will bring this world the god it so desperately needs. Your death will have glorious meaning. Far more so than the lives of those you threw away in a pitiful attempt to stop my victory."

There are hands on him. Holding him unnecessarily still. The red lyrium _sings_ with a joy that is not his as he stares up at Corypheus. The twisted smile makes him tremble even as his body leans forward. His mind slipping back under the weight of the red even as he feels his lips press reverently to the clawed fingers wrapped around a humming orb. The taste of blood, corruption, and lyrium is the last thing Cullen knows.

.

.


	15. Hawke x Cullen

**Goofy Kiss  
**

**Notes:** Can't tell me you get any goofier than drunk Hawke.

.

* * *

.

Cullen has been a Templar for many years and he's been through a very wide variety of situations. Wide enough that he'd thought nothing would ever truly be able to surprise him anymore.

That was before he was sent to Kirkwall, and before he met a frustratingly untouchable apostate named Hawke.

"Hey," said apostate drawls with a grin that doesn't belong in the Gallows at all. Neither does the overly friendly way he throws an arm over Cullen's shoulder. Using the weight of his body to hold him still so that Cullen will have to really work at throwing him off if he wants to be free. "Is that a sword in your belt or you happy to see me?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second," Cullen sighs. Hawke is a decent man for a mage. His ideals are overly optimistic at times and lead him to stepping into the strangest of situations. Some of which Cullen himself has benefited from.

Cullen does not let the man's usefulness blind him to his faults though, and he does count Hawke's seeming insanity as a fault. Both the Knight-Commander and the Viscount see it as an acceptable fault though, and Hawke -and to a lesser extent his companions- are left alone.

He wonders if Meredith would be so willing to overlook Hawke so much if she ever had to meet him when he came to the Gallows. In the middle of the day with several known apostates in tow with him.

"Aw you don't mean that," Hawke stumbles even though he's holding absolutely still and Cullen can smell it now. He's fairly sweating alcohol all over Cullen as he pouts. He aims a comically wide eyed gaze left first, and then right. Cullen doesn't know which of his crew he brought along today but he can hear one familiar snicker among the sounds behind him. "He doesn't mean that. He _loves_ me!"

"No. No I really do-"

It's hard to talk with several stones of drunken apostate attached to his face like a barnacle. Cullen tastes something foul and strong enough to straighten his hair as Hawke messily and loudly kisses him. It's all tongue and no skill at all. Leaving him feeling wet and very dirty when the noble pulls back with a deranged grin.

"Nugs," Hawke laughs a little before his eyes roll up and into the back of his head. He crumples to the ground in an ungainly heap of robes and limbs. Cullen staggers from the loss of weight but two hands steady him. One at his shoulder and one at his lower back.

"What just happened?" Anders eventually asks, pulling hastily away when Cullen straightens up. Voice rich with laughter he doesn't give voice to but Cullen hears anyway.

"Is he drunk?" The elf, Fenris Cullen thinks is his name, asks. Remarkably calmly given the situation, but then he wasn't the one being assaulted.

Varric pats his lower back once before shrugging. He looks as amused as he does frustrated. "Don't look at me. He was sober on the docks. I swear it!"

Fenris grunts and kneels at Hawke's side. His hands disappearing for a moment before coming out with a small flask. He uncaps it and looks into it, nose wrinkling and Cullen can smell the alcohol from where he's standing. Stronger than what he got off of Hawke. "I'm surprised he didn't fall off the ferry with this rot in him."

A drunk apostate wandered into the Gallows to kiss Cullen before passing out. Cullen only wishes he could call this out of the ordinary. He scrubs at his mouth roughly and is just thankful that Hawke had found him in one of the alcoves with only a few Tranquil around to see it. "I don't care. Just get him away from me."

"Aw," Anders drawls out mockingly as he bats his eyes at Cullen with the kind of twist of hi mouth that always got him in trouble in Ferelden. "Don't you _love_ him anymore Cullen?"

"Let's go grab a cart or something, Blondie," Varric intercedes quickly. Pushing the man away as Cullen's right hand twitches on reflex. Anders skids back a few steps before going with the push. "Unless you _want_ to carry Hawke back with Fenris?"

Cullen shakes his head and turns on his heel to walk away. He doesn't really care how they get Hawke away, but he is absolutely certain he'll be far happier not knowing the outcome to this. Like most things involving Hawke really.

A fact he's slowly grown used to over the years. Along with all the other insanity that comes with dealing with the man.

.

.


	16. Zevran x Cullen

**Collarbone Kiss  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

.

* * *

.

"Are you the Knight-Captain?"

"Yes," Cullen answers. Wary even as he turns to face the man asking because the accent is Antivian, and caution is never amiss when dealing with anyone from that country. "Who is asking?"

The man is an elf and does not appear disturbed at all when Cullen's hand drops to his sword. Gripping the hilt instead of resting it there because the elf is _armed_. He smiles like a nug oil salesman and raises both hands up. Palms out with a flourish that's showy in showing off that he means no harm. "A friend."

"I know the names and faces of my own friends," Cullen responds flatly. The day has been long and he's really not up to dealing with the usual cryptic word play everyone seems to enjoy. "And I know neither from you. So tell me who you are and why you seek me."

The elf reels back. Hands fluttering over his chest in an overdramatic display of hurt. "Do not know me? I am hurt, Ser Cullen, that you would not remember a face as handsome as mine. Though I suppose you were under a lot of distress at the time. So I can be convinced to forgive you. I am a rather forgiving man after all."

Distress? There's a twist to the word, an entire world of inflection he can't follow for a few seconds. A few blissful seconds until something about the angle of the man's jaw triggers a memory.

Kinloch.

He remembers Cousland and Alistair. Wynne next to them and urging the Wardens on after Uldred. He remembers less of the people that had followed them, but he thinks there was an elf with them. They are not pleasant memories that Cullen cares to dwell on overly much if he can help it.

He usually can't help it but few men can control their nightmares.

"I would hardly call us friends," Cullen says but he does ease his grip a bit and turns more fully to address the man. "And if I was given your name then, I am afraid I do not remember it."

"Ah, well, that is understandable. To be honest I am not exactly sure we all stuck around long enough for proper introductions what with my Warden friends not wanting to leave the Archdemon waiting," his smile belies the absolute seriousness of his words and he sweeps and elaborate bow that doesn't actually have him take his eyes off Cullen. "Zevran Arainai. Formerly of the Antivan Crows and currently of, and for, myself. With a few favors done for my friends of course."

"Of course," Cullen repeats doubtfully and thinks about taking a step back as the man closes in. Wrapping a friendly seeming hand around his arm. Pulling gently to guide him.

Somewhere.

Where doesn't matter honestly as Cullen has no intention of going anywhere with a man who just admitted he was an assassin. Zevran smiles still even as Cullen plants his feet. Spinning so that it looks like he was the one who decided to stop. "And I would still know your purpose in seeking me out now."

"Ah, just a little message running for a friend of ours. A former Templar turned Warden asked me for a favor," Zevran steps forward as a group of sailors tromps by. Arms laden with crates and goods, and not giving any care at all to who they might be walking over. Cullen moves back with the motion and finds himself with his back to a wall faster than he thought he should. "A favor for him for a favor for you," Zevran's grin grows as he flows right back into the space Cullen gained. Placing both hands high against Cullen's chest plate. Provocatively so, and the man knows it going by the light of laughter lurking in his eyes. "Strange how these things end up working out, no?"

Alistair had promised Cullen information weeks back, but he'd expected Alistair himself to bring it himself. The Warden was often in and out of Kirkwall for many reasons. More so since an entrance to the Deep Roads was found near the city.

"Yes," Cullen tries to step back again but the wall is still there, and the street is too crowded. He blinks and frowns down at the man whose smile is full of unspoken promises that even Cullen can read. The fingers curling over the edge of his armor are nothing short of a shouted proposition. "Well then if you could hand over-"

"I could," Zevran purrs and the street is clear. There is no longer any excuse at all for the way the man winds closer. Leaning in enough that his lips press and drag over the metal of the armor over his chest. His voice is low and suggestive but clear enough for Cullen to hear. "Or we could go to my room for a few hours of fun and I could give you the letter afterwards."

"I, why would..." Maker, why did this always happen to him? Backed up to a wall with an overly flirtatious person preventing a graceful escape is an event Cullen is far too familiar with for his own peace of mind. "No! I would rather not!"

"Pity," Zevran says with a sigh Cullen would be able to feel against his neck were it not for the armor. He leans back and Cullen can hear the crinkle of paper as something is pressed under his breast plate. The folded edges scrape against a bit of skin bared at his collar. "Perhaps another time."

Zevran smiles brilliantly again and is gone just as fast as he appeared. Cullen blows out a breath before pushing away from the wall to head back to the Gallows. He leaves the letter hidden until the door to his small room closes behind him. Trusting that whatever Alistair had found that made him turn to an assassin is sensitive enough to require the privacy. Most things dealing with black-market lyrium needed it after all.

.

.


	17. Anders x Cullen 3

**Nose Kiss  
**

**Notes:** Ibid.

.

* * *

.

"You are ridiculous," Cullen says with all the grave solemnity of a Revered Mother giving benedictions to those sentenced to death.

The runaway mage neither startles nor looks up from where he's crouched on the ground. Appearing totally at ease with being found not even five miles away from the Circle. Cullen's not even part of the search party that left to go after him.

To the North because of reasons he knows nothing of because he's _not_ supposed to be hunting the mage. He's supposed to be travel ling to the caravan outpost with the week's requisition orders and the dispatches from the Tower. A brief march out and back in time for dinner.

"No, you are ridiculous," Anders retorts. Barely any attention paid to it which blunts his normally sharper tongue. The wide, ecstatic grin he's wearing doesn't help either. "Isn't he ridiculous? Yes he is! Big, old ridiculous Templar. Nothing at all like you precious little things!"

The gray cat curled up in the crate is familiar. The cat wanders the lower floor of the Tower and the island outside of it. Hunting mice and other pests. She purrs contentedly as she regards them both briefly with slit eyes. The squirming mass of newly born kittens take her and the mage's full attention as they struggle to latch onto a teat.

"Did you bring her out here to give birth?" Cullen asks unnecessarily because he knows it to be the truth already. The Tower has three other cats and discussion on what to do with the pregnant gray has been going on since her stomach started showing. There's not enough of a pest population to support more cats, and talk had turned to getting rid of the litter. Not all of that talks had been gentle either.

"No, I brought her out here so I could drown the kittens myself," Anders stops fussing long enough to scowl up at him. Neck craned up awkwardly. "This is not an escape attempt by the way. This is a rescue mission. It doesn't count!"

"Ser Bethesaide has left to retrieve you," in the opposite direction and Cullen wonders now because that means the mage's phylactery wasn't used. Not at first at least. The man's record of finding apostates and runaway mages is both impressive, and something most of them are tired of hearing the man brag about. Finding a mage without the use of his phylactery will just be the next step up for the man, and Cullen is not surprised by the act or how spectacularly it will fail him. "I think it has already been counted."

Anders frowns before his eyes drop to the dispatch bag. "You found me on accident!" He sounds delighted as he laughs. "Oh, Biff's going to be so mad!"

Bethesaide will be, but he's also the one who had been most vocal for the plan of drowning the litter. Cullen's fairly sure that plays no small part in the mage's glee at angering the Templar sent out to hunt him down. He leans over the kneeling mage and counts five squirming forms. One nearly toothless maw gapes open for a bit and releases a tiny pitiful noise before diving back in. Cullen does not consider himself a cat person, but knows that he could not go with any of the darker options after being faced with that.

"You're planning to leave them here?" Cullen asks and doesn't permit himself to kneel down to pet the kittens himself. Anders is fussing enough over them.

"Well not here," Anders drawls out. Voice rising slightly as he looks up again. Smile the kind of innocent Cullen knows only comes out when someone is about to ask a favor. A large favor. "I was going to take her to the outpost, but she was having some trouble with the last kitten and had to stop."

Anders is wheedling and asking without actually saying anything. Cullen shakes his head and the mage carefully picks up the crate the cats are in. There's a chorus of mewls as the shift upsets them all, and Cullen doesn't step back fast enough to avoid it as it's shoved into his chest. "What are you-"

"You cannot say no to this face," Anders coos as he reaches in to lift one of the kittens up and all but shoves it in Cullen's face. A small paw bats at his upper lip as the furry head bumps against his nose. It's mewing is high and tiny. "It's just another mile or two until this little one gets a nice, new home. Dry barn, plenty of rats, and no one looking for an excuse to drown him."

"Fine, but you are staying close to me," Cullen caves in as much to the wheedling tone Anders uses as the pitiful mews of the kittens. "Get the cat out of my face."

The kitten disappears from his face and he has no time to dodge as Anders takes it's place. Placing a dry, noisy kiss on his nose before tucking the kitten back into the crate. "That's what I like about you. You're _reasonable_."

Cullen flinches back too late and is left watching the mage's back as he spins around to lead the way. The kittens aren't feeding anymore. They're curled up little balls of sleeping fluff now. The mother is still purring, but her eyes are closed. Cullen should be turning right back around to escort Anders back to the Tower. He should be discouraging the mage from any future attempts to leave its protection. He should but he won't.

He's often been accused of being too soft hearted, and it's true, but Cullen has a hard time seeing the harm in saving the crate full of soft furred felines.

"Reasonable," Cullen mutters to himself with a scoff as he follows. Keeping a sharp eye on Anders the whole way because he might be soft hearted, but he's not stupid. "Reasonable won't save me from being lashed you know."

"Eh, you can handle it," Anders says with a careless wave over his shoulder, and Cullen would not be surprised if the man was smirking. "Big, bad Templar like you can handle anything really."

Cullen scowls and quickens his pace. Keeping his eyes locked on the mage he's now _sure_ is going to try to slip away somehow, somewhere.

.

.


End file.
